


Some Maths, Quite a Few Deductions, A Lot of Angst That Turns Out Much Different Than Expected Unless You've Read the Description

by GinnyBadWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gay, Just really gay, M/M, Takes place some inexplicable time after the Abominable Bride, moriarty being creepy, some non-serious mentions of Sheriarty but I don't ship it so it's not like a canon thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyBadWolf/pseuds/GinnyBadWolf
Summary: Sherlock has not slept recently; blurs his mind. Therefore, he must sleep. However, his own bedroom is not particularly suited for duties such as providing a comfortable environment for sleep, or comfort at all. This leads into a lot of angst and some confusion, which in turn leads into (1) phone call and (536) others things at least.





	

Sherlock’s room: compact, shadowy, simple. Does not contain much furniture. Comfortable bed; boxes and items underneath. Bins by the walls, objects scattered. Orderly closet. The bedroom of a man who does not spend much time in it - more of a storage room than a living space. 

 

There is not much to deduce about Sherlock’s room. Correction: there is plenty to deduce. But it is boring, not new information - he already knows all of it. 

 

That is why Sherlock chooses not to sleep in his own room often. Instead of the familiarity lulling him to sleep, it only frustrates/infuriates/irritates him, makes him furiously search around the room for another detail to uncover. It is far more interesting to sleep in the living room, where things often change. He may plot out John’s day by scanning the room for displaced objects - a tea cup here, a newspaper there, two pairs of shoes near the door, remote by the armchair, previously unknown bookmark on the table, Tesco bag on the counter, laptop sitting open on the desk. 

 

Woke up, had tea, read the newspaper. Obvious. Went out for a while, based on the muddy shoes by the door - it rained this afternoon, but not in the morning, so he must have returned to the apartment when it was raining, didn’t take a cab. Two clean marks on shoes suggest John wiped mud off of shoes to inspect the amount of filth, transferring to middle and index finger. Watched the telly immediately afterwards, made clear by the buttons - specks of mud on the ‘on’ button, but not ‘off’ button, suggesting that John cleaned hands after turning on telly. Clearly not any program that he felt compelled to watch carefully. Felt guilty about watching telly all the time; tried to read a book he had been thinking about for a while. Book was desperately dull, though John hoped it would be good enough to want to continue. Was put back on the shelf without the bookmark inside. Went for a snack in the kitchen, found body parts instead of food, went out for a quick trip to Tesco’s in different shoes, this pair cleaner because it had stopped raining hours ago. Returned, put away groceries, did not throw away bag. Ate dinner, cleaned and put away dishes. Decided to write about the most recent case they had tackled; grew tired and went to sleep without shutting the laptop. 

 

How quaint. 

 

Simple deductions such as that are quite relaxing - do not require too much brain power nor inspire excitement. They help him to sleep. Harder to do so now that John does not live in 221B any longer. 

 

On occasion, Sherlock does end up sleeping in his own room for various reasons; John has a new girlfriend, needs a place to stay but it’s too early to share a bed (though this is no longer an occurrence due to Mary); items relating to a case are piled on the couch and cannot be moved; John ushers him to bed (also less frequent); it’s cold and Sherlock needs to be in a warm environment to calm his mind; or other various reasons, though this is not common. 

 

He does not like sleeping in his own room much; inspires nervous energy, causes troublesome dreams that often disarm/frazzle him. Most nights he does not sleep at all. 

 

But as of now he has not slept in days - an interesting case caught his attention, and only this evening has he solved it. Lack of rest is causing his mental state to fade, an unwanted side effect of the sleepless nights he often pulls. Therefore, he must sleep on a comfortable surface, and though he does not wish to, he should sleep in his own room to avoid waking up in the middle of the night because of aches from the too-small couch.  

 

Perhaps not such a good idea in retrospect. He is irritated by the lack of interesting things in his bedroom; prevents sleep. Instead, he attempts to deduct from memory. This proves problematic - as he said once before, the average human mind only remembers 60% of a memory. Sherlock remembers 80% - sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on state of mind and relevance of memory. However, the only things he has bothered to store are useful pieces of information already deducted. No help. There are very few other things with which to occupy his mind, unless he wishes to delve into his Mind Palace, which is entirely unhelpful in his attempt at going to sleep. 

 

Bored. 

 

He halts his thinking, and instead stands to pace. The sudden transition from lying down to standing causes immediate dizziness and tunnel vision that only disappears with waiting. Sherlock stands, clearing his mind, and suddenly finds his head tipping forward and… his eyes shutting… 

 

_ He jolts.  _ Not asleep, then. Can’t be - he had almost fallen asleep standing up, but given the fact that he is not in his bed or on the floor currently, he can deduce that it was a momentary lack of consciousness and he had fallen asleep like a Uni student in class. 

 

New definition of frustration/irritation: this. 

 

Giving up, he pads downstairs to go get his violin, hoping of playing until he exhausts himself and has no choice but to sleep. He turns into the living room, prepared to play for hours, but instead finds himself shocked to the core. 

 

Moriarty is sitting in John’s chair. 

 

He is wearing a suit as always. No wounds on the back of his head; no wounds at all. Seems to be inspecting his sleeve. One leg crossed over the other. Leaning back in the chair casually. Nonchalant. Does not appear to have any flaws to his appearance - no stray 

hairs, no stains or smudges, no bruises, no cuts, no  **bullet wounds,** no signs of death, alive, alive, (Moriarty = alive). 

 

Sherlock would like to say he is a sociopath. But for a man who feels no emotion, there is a significant amount of fear/dread/horror/panic clouding his system. 

 

Moriarty looks up, notices Sherlock. “Ah. Hello.” He smiles and gestures to the chair in front of him. 

 

Sherlock does not move. “You’re dead.” 

 

Moriarty’s grin does not fade. “Yes, of course, Sherlock. I’m dead as a doornail.” 

 

He is ashamed of the crack in his voice when he speaks. “Then how are you here?”

 

“Took a cab.” He continues to fiddle with his sleeve. 

 

“No, if you’re dead, then  _ how are you here? _ ”

 

“We all have our ways, Sherlock. Besides, I’ve always liked it here. All the experiments, the body parts in the fridge, the skull decor, the nice little bookshelves. It’s all very quaint. I’m sure you already knew all that from when I dropped by the other day, but isn’t it nice to hear it in person?”

 

“I -” 

 

“Sit down. It’s rather rude to stand there gaping at me like this.” He does an exaggerated imitation of Sherlock’s expression, which is similar to the face he pulled at the pool. 

 

Sherlock walks, almost mindlessly, to his own chair. Somehow, Moriarty makes it seem as if Sherlock is the guest. 

 

“How did you get inside?” 

 

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Enough with the questions already. It’s getting dull, don’t you agree? It’s almost as if you’re a normal little person. I believe your brother calls them ‘goldfish’, isn’t that right? It’s a nice term, I suppose, but I like the word ‘plaything’ a bit more.” 

 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock says seriously. 

 

Moriarty grimaces. “More questions? Why, Sherlock, it’s as if you don’t want to take my advice. I’m offended.” 

 

“Answer the questions, and maybe I’ll stop asking.” 

 

He sighs. “I’ll do it, just for you, Sherly.”  _ Irritating. _ “I’m here because I wanted to see you. Is that too much to ask, for old friends?” 

 

“Friends is a bit of an overstatement.”

 

“Colleagues?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Acquaintances?”

 

“No.” 

 

“Not enemies, surely. I could never hate you, Sherlock. How about lovers?” 

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I think I’ll have to say no to that one as well.” 

 

Moriarty looks ruffled. “That’s a bit harsh.” His tone is only slightly incredulous.  

 

Sherlock puts his fingertips together. “For you, no.” 

 

“Ouch,” Moriarty cries, putting a hand on his chest. 

 

Sherlock moves on. “So you wanted to see me. What for?” 

 

“Because I needed to tell you something important.” He does not continue. 

 

“What?” Spits Sherlock, frustrated. 

 

Moriarty sits forward in his chair. “Come here,” He whispers, looking around warily. “I don’t want the cameras to see.” 

 

Sherlock frowns, and does not move. Moriarty once again beckons. “Come on, I don’t bite.” He pauses with a smirk. “Often.” Sherlock scowls, and then leans over. Moriarty looks around warily once more, then covers their conversation like two young girls exchanging secrets.

 

In a quiet whisper, Moriarty rasps, “ _ He. Owes. You.”  _

 

There is a gunshot, and Moriarty slumps forward, dead. Sherlock flinches violently backwards, and Moriarty’s corpse falls forward, but to the side so Sherlock can see his face. Just like it had been on the roof, except with the bullet having come in from the back of his head rather than the mouth. Death: immediate. Must be real this time.  _ Must  _ be. 

  
  


He wastes no time in looking up at the person who shot him.

 

John Watson stands with his gun; an unfamiliar one at that. He looks as he always has, but something imperceivable has changed. John is as much a puzzle as The Woman was the first time he saw her. 

 

Sherlock gets up from his chair by leaping off the back, and walks to the middle of the room. “John? Why are you here?”

 

He only lowers his gun. “Didn’t he tell you not to ask questions?” 

 

Something cold/foreign/awful curls in Sherlock’s stomach. By all means, John should not have said that. There is no logical explanation as to why John Watson, the man he  loves cares for most in the world, would utter such a thing. 

 

(John Watson = safety, love, kinship, worth, excitement, happiness). Usually, this statement is infallible, unchallengeable, absolute. Why, with one utterance, does this suddenly feel untrue? 

 

“John?” He asks cautiously. 

 

“I’m not the John Watson you know.”

 

Sherlock’s left hand begins to shake, so he clenches it. “What?”

 

“You thought you had it all figured out. Thought you knew everything about me. Just like you thought you knew everything about Mary.”

 

“W-what?” 

 

“You truly are dense. Let me put it in words you’ll understand. Just two, in case you lose track.” He pauses. “Fooled. You.” 

 

Sherlock breathes out a word almost too quiet to hear. “No.” 

 

“Yes. Everything John Watson said, everything he’s done, just a trick. Just a magic trick.”

 

“No, no - remember, in a Study in Pink, when people were forced to take those pills? You’re being forced, like they were. Like when you were kidnapped, in the Blind Banker. Like when you were forced to say things, like in the Great Game. You’re being forced.” 

 

John smirks. “No, no, and no. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t know if John Watson was being forced.”

 

Cannot be true; there must be some other explanation. “It’s not real. It’s a hallucination, like with Irene The Woman and her poisoned whip that makes me see things. It’s like with the gas in the Hounds of Baskerville. Like with the fake suicide in the Reichenbach Fall. Not. Real.” 

 

“You have not been drugged or tricked, Sherlock. Be a bit more creative.” 

 

“You’re lying about, about this. Like when I lied about the bomb in the train car, like when I lied when I congratulated you at your wedding, like when I lied about what I wanted to say at the tarmac.”

 

“The opposite. I’m telling the truth now, but I lied before. You’re purposefully trying to remind me of all the little ‘adventures’ to see if it makes me care, but it doesn’t. In the end, I tricked you, because you were so blinded by your emotions and your love for John. In the end, you were the stupid one. In the end, you fell in love with a fake person. How poetic.” 

 

Tears - Sherlock has never cried. Not for real. 

 

He cries for John. He cries for what was never real. 

 

John smiles. “You never really died, did you? Of course not. It was all a lie.” He sighs. “Well, I guess that means that you’re short one death. And  _ I - owe - you. _ ” 

 

He pulls the trigger of the gun. It hits Sherlock right below to his heart. 

 

Sherlock falls backwards. Blood - blood everywhere - the bullet went straight through him, which means that Sherlock has fallen the wrong way. What does it matter? 

 

John walks slowly over to him. “It was all a lie, Sherlock. All a lie. A trick. It wasn’t real. Not real. It’s not real.” 

 

Sherlock stares up at him, and something inside him shatters. Fracturing glass, falling in shards, shining like rare gems. He can almost see them, in his mind, clattering to the ground and breaking even further until all they are is dust. 

 

He looks up at John, and repeats the last phrase to him in a rasp. “It’s not real.” 

 

He gasps, and awakens. He is lying on the floor of his bedroom; his small, dark, awful bedroom. 

 

Not real. Not real. It can’t be. 

 

He puts his palm over the wound - not there. He breathes out a ragged sigh of relief, but the tremors do not cease. 

 

A dream, then. 

 

A nightmare. 

 

He must have truly fallen asleep standing up, and everything from then on was just a product of his mind. A terrible product; something unthinkable. Not real. 

 

John. Must call John. 

 

But (John = not here), because of (John + Mary), and not (John + Sherlock) anymore. 

 

Now there is (John - Sherlock). And of course, according to the commutative property of addition, there is (Sherlock - John). But there really is no (Sherlock - John).

 

Here are the maths: 

 

(John - Sherlock) + Mary > 0

 

(Sherlock - John) + Mary ≤ 0

 

Off track. Must stop. How to get to John. Need John. 

 

John always has cell phone. 75% because of impending cases. 15% because of night shifts that he might be called in for with only a minute’s notice. 10% because he is afraid Sherlock will call him like he did on the roof, and John is always subconsciously terrified that it’ll happen again for real. 

 

Call. Should call John. He will answer, and there is a 70% chance he will arrive without Mary. Used to be 40%; then they found out about Mary. There is far less trust than should be in their relationship, but they still stay together against all odds. 

 

This sounds romantic. A couple who stays together throughout all hardships and betrayals, even though if they were anyone else it would not have lasted. Sherlock thinks that maybe it’s for a good reason the rest of the couples would not have stayed together. It seems as if their continual relationship is an obligation rather than a choice. John is not happy. 

 

John deserves happiness. Mary is not giving it to him. And yet, if it is what John wants, Sherlock is in no place to object. Sherlock is the one giving him hardships and problems, after all. Sherlock is the one who made him grieve for two years. Sherlock is the one who returned expecting everything to be the way he left it. As if the world is ever so kind. Sherlock expects too much. Sherlock is blind. Sherlock is uncaring.  _ Unfeeling. _

 

His finger hovers over the call button; even though it is what he wants, John will be frustrated by having to wake up in the middle of the night to cater to Sherlock’s selfish needs. John is with Mary right now. Sherlock must stay out of it. 

 

His head rules his heart - and still, he presses the call button. Perhaps Mycroft is not so incorrect about staying uninvolved. 

 

It rings once, twice, thrice, and each time Sherlock feels a little hope die away. Perhaps John has silenced it; not caring tonight whether or not Sherlock calls. The fourth ring is almost complete when John picks up the phone, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.  

 

“Sherlock?” John whispers - angry whisper, he is clearly unhappy with Sherlock having woken him up at some ungodly hour of the night. 

 

“John?” Voice: more broken than expected. Disappointing. 

 

The second sentence is noticeably less irritated. “Sherlock, are you alright?” In the background, a sound easily linked to bed springs is heard, and then quiet footsteps. John has gotten out of bed and is now anticipating a conversation of which he does not want Mary to listen to. John truly is clever. 

 

Sherlock does not respond, instead preferring to analyze every noise the call produces. He does not know why John is suddenly so concerned after only one word from Sherlock, when it usually takes much longer for John to develop worry for him, if it ever does happen. Then he realizes it is because Sherlock usually prefers text to calls - the only other phone call Sherlock has ever really made was on the roof. 

 

“Sherlock?” John repeats; sternly this time around. 

 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock replies, voice rougher and more painful to use than is usual. Perhaps Sherlock spoke out loud - did not scream, or Mrs. Hudson would have appeared upstairs. Most likely that Sherlock groaned in response to the fake gunshot wound. 

 

“Why did you call, what is it you want? You never call.” 

 

“Astute observation, John. I believe it is because I need you to come to Baker Street immediately.” 

 

“What - why? Sherlock, what is it?  _ Are you alright? _ ” 

 

“Come now. Do not bring a gun. You won’t be needing it.” 

 

“If I don’t need a gun, then what is it?” 

 

“Please.” The phrase spills from Sherlock’s lips before he can rein it in. There is silence from the other side of the line for a moment. 

 

“I’m on my way. Do you need me to stay on the phone?” The rushed noises of putting on clothes and shoes rustle in the background. 

 

“No.” Yes. 

 

“Alright, I’m coming now. Wait for me, please.” Then he hangs up. Sherlock does not put down the phone, and instead chooses to lean against the bed a bit longer and hope the tremors dissipate quickly. 

 

(Efforts = fruitless). Alternate idea - move to living room. 

 

Sherlock stands, worryingly unsteady. He exits the room, and finds himself at the doorway to the living room. 

 

Error: cannot enter. 

 

He knows there is nothing and no one there. And yet, his heart continues to rule his brain. Logic falls to be replaced by fear. He cannot do it. What lies in the room is nothing - but his terrors haunt him there and he does not want to enter only to find they are real.

 

Instead, he sinks to the ground directly beside the doorframe. Error: cannot enter. Error: cannot enter. Error: cannot compute. Error: cannot function. Error: cannot breathe. Error: cannot think. Error: cannot stop. Error: cannot continue. Error: Error: Error: Error: Error:Error:Error:Error:ErrorErrorErrorErrorErrorerrorerrorerrorerrorerrorERRORERRORERRORERROR “Sherlock!” 

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up from where it laid in his hands. Disheveled John stands in front, panting. Wild eyes. 

 

Woke up 26 minutes ago - lept out of bed, not feeling effects of sleep loss so soon after initial wake up. Wearing dark blue long-sleeved sleep shirt - figured that was appropriate for quick trip across London, changed into jeans. Shoes - cheap trainers he threw on in a minute. Did not say goodbye to Mary. Got in car, drove fast as possible, ran red light. Correction: red lights. Unkempt hair. Neck, face, and lips suggest that John and Mary did not have sex tonight - or recently. 

 

“Hello John,” He rasps. 

 

John moves a step closer. “Sherlock, are you alright? Tell me now, if you’re alright.” 

 

Sherlock stares at John. “John, have you ever lied to me?”

 

John crouches down, visibly more concerned. “No, Sherlock, I haven’t ever lied to you.” 

 

“How do I know that’s not a lie?” 

 

John frowns. “Because I would never, ever lie to you, Sherlock. Now tell me, what’s wrong?” 

 

Sherlock swallows and looks down. “I - um, I had a nightmare.” John blinks, surprised. He does not speak, so Sherlock continues. “I was trying to fall asleep, and I nodded off standing up. I thought I was still awake, so I went downstairs, and M-Moriarty was there. He spoke to me, for a while, and then told me something: He -” he takes a rasping breath - “owes -” another - “you. And then he was shot through the back of the head. You - you were the one who did it. And then you - you told me, that it was all a lie, that you fooled me, and that you weren’t John. And then you shot me. And I woke up.” It’s all very informal/discombobulated/uninformed, but Sherlock has lost the will to care. 

 

Hands: will not stop shaking. Eyes: tinged red from unwanted tears. Hair: messed up from hands raking through it. Heart: beating at unforgivable rate. Sherlock’s transport is betraying him.

 

John gazes at him, with something in his eyes shining quite clearly. Sherlock is a master of the subtleties, but it is the things most direct that befuddle him. For the life of him, Sherlock cannot dissect what is in those eyes of John’s that he treasures more than anything.

 

A hand - intertwines with Sherlock’s, brings him to his shaky feet. “John?” He murmurs. 

 

Error: cannot enter. 

 

John stands on the other side of the doorway, blocking the view inside the living room. John is on the other side - between him and John are all the things he fears. 

 

Error: cannot enter. 

 

“Sherlock, come on. Step into the room with me.” 

 

_ Error: cannot enter. _

 

“John, I can’t.” 

 

“Yes, you can. Step through the door.” 

 

_ Error: cannot enter. _

 

“You don’t understand - that’s where  _ he  _ is.” 

 

“Sherlock, there’s nobody here.” 

 

**_Error: cannot enter._ **

 

“I can’t do it.” 

 

“Sherlock, you are the only thing holding you back. Conquer your fear, and step through the door.”

 

**_Error: cannot enter._ **

 

“But I’m - I’m -” 

“What, afraid? Never stopped you before. Don’t let your fears hold you back.” 

 

**_ERROR: CANNOT ENTER._ **

 

“John, please, I’m -”

 

“Do it for me, okay? Do it because you know if I were lying to you I’d never try like this. Do it, and prove to yourself that everything we have is real, and that your nightmares are nightmares and nothing more.” 

 

**_ERRR: CANNOT ENT_ ** -

Error: resolved. 

 

There is no body. There is no wound. There is no blood. There is no shattered glass. There is only John. Sherlock, and John. 

 

Their hands do not part. Sherlock is past his fears, now, and there is only Sherlock and John. 

 

“See? It was just a nightma-”

 

Sherlock rushes forward, and presses his lips to John’s. Quickly, almost as if it hadn’t happened, but still so earth-shatteringly real. 

 

John’s eyes are closed, but they open within a moment. “Sherlock?” 

 

_ Error: the fears extend past the doorway. _

 

Voice: shaking. “I need - to know - if you’re real.” 

 

“I’m always real, Sherlock.” 

 

“Then why am I not sure?” 

 

“If I may, I’d like to change your mind.” And John puts his hand on Sherlock’s neck and draws him in for a second kiss, and a third. Longer than last time - it delves deeper as well, but stays well within the range of proper. As proper as one can get with a man who is married. 

 

They break apart, and their foreheads rest together. Good; illogical; how; why; Mary.

 

“What about -” 

 

“Deduce a little further, Sherlock. When was the last time you saw her? Did you hear any noise from her on the phone call? Does it seem as if we’ve been together?” 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes. “You’ve been separated for approximately two weeks now. A dispute over me, the baby, and her stolen identity. Decided that you weren’t right for each other. You live in the house; she lives with her ex-boyfriend. Planning to sell the house and get a divorce - baby will be hers, because the baby is hers and the ex-boyfriend’s.” 

 

John swallows. “A bit slow this time around, but all correct.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

“You’re not the most subtle of persons, Sherlock.”

 

“I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

 

“That’s what I said about Reichenbach.” 

 

Sherlock hesitates. “I see.” 

 

Their foreheads rest together; inseparable. “Sherlock. I want you to remember that I would never lie to you. I did the exact same thing in that dream as Mary did. But I am not Mary.”

 

“No, you’re not Mary. You’re far better.” 

 

“Mm.” They do not speak for a while. It is only after several minutes that Sherlock voices what’s on his mind. 

 

“So - that means - you’re going to come and live with me?” 

 

“Yes, it does, Sherlock. I’m coming back to you, this time forever.”

 

The fourth kiss is a bit more hurried. Fifth and sixth are even more so. 

 

By number five hundred and thirty-six, Sherlock decides to stop keeping track.

 

Moments without John are few and far between; (John + Sherlock) = always. 

 

John is lying quite comfortably beside him- back facing up, arm flung across Sherlock’s chest, other hand entwined with Sherlock’s fingers, about half of torso covering Sherlock’s, legs tangled together irreversibly, head lying quite close to Sherlock’s own. Sherlock watches John quite carefully, free hand tracing equations into John’s back. 

 

72% have to do with the two of them - the other 28% are physics. 

 

John’s room: cosy, warm, familiar. But it always pales in comparison to the remarkable man who lies with him every night. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
